“Who took his statement?”
“Detective Lyman.” McLain accessed the statement that had been logged into the CPD server and sent it to Campanelli’s implant. “There’s the report.”
Frank opened the file, projecting the text to his lenses and read it. The interview was short, depicting only the time that it had occurred and a brief description of the jumper.
“This is it?” he asked of Lyman’s boss with his palms outstretched. “This is one crappy report.”
“Yeah,” Kirby said, “I was going to talk to the boy myself later.”
“Let’s go,” Frank insisted and headed for the door as he put his hat on.
“It’s Wednesday morning. He’s in school.”
Frank stopped, looked to the ceiling, and sighed heavily.
“I know, I know,” McLain said as he took the lead and opened the door for the Sentinel detective. “Let’s go get ‘im outta class.”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
McLain led his impromptu partner to his cruiser and the two set off for the middle school nearly a mile and a half away.
“Damn fool,” Kirby muttered as they pulled into a parking place across the street from the school.
“What?” asked Campanelli.
“Lyman. Neither he nor his partner, Davies, thought to visually inspect the balcony,” McLain explained as he shook his head and opened his door.
“I know the both of them. They’re good men, but they aren’t taking this as seriously as they should,” Campanelli commented as he got out of the car.
“Trust me,” Kirby said over his shoulder. “They are now.”
“Good.”
The pair walked up to the main door of the red-bricked school and pressed the doorbell. A doppelganger sentry answered immediately by opening the door partway, but remaining in the way as it was programmed. It was a more recent model, Campanelli guessed, around thirty years old. It was in good shape and slightly less anatomically correct than its predecessors. Standing about five-foot, ten inches tall, it was given the dress of a school maintenance man, gray overalls with a white shirt. When not busy maintaining the premises, such a machine acted as an unarmed security guard.
“May I help you two gentlemen?” it asked in a gently masculine voice.
Both detectives displayed their badges and introduced themselves.
“Come in, please, officers,” the antique machine bid and opened the door. It stepped to one side to allow them a path.
“Thank you,” Kirby granted as he returned his badge to his sport coat’s inner pocket. “We’re looking for Martin Kilbourne. We need to speak to him about an incident he witnessed this morning.”
“I see,” the doppelganger replied. “I have signed you both in as visitors and am contacting the vice principal, Margaret Thames. Martin Kilbourne is in his advanced math class upstairs. Miss Thames will meet us outside the classroom.”
“Thank you,” McLain said as he and Campanelli followed the automaton into an elevator.
The machine was programmed for small talk, which bored Frank immensely. “Lovely day,” it commented once it turned to face the detectives.
“For some,” Frank said flatly. He had no love for doppelgangers.
“Oh, my,” the machine replied. “That’s a bit of a non-sequitur, I’m afraid, Detective Campanelli.”
“I’m afraid that I don’t give a good god…”
“Frank,” Kirby interrupted with a hint of a smile.
Once on the second floor, the elevator doors opened with a loud creaking, nearly loud enough to trigger the noise suppression in both men’s implants.
“How about a little grease, Otis?” Frank shot at the doppelganger. Kirby smiled.
“I am Calvin, sir. I maintain the electrical and lighting of the building. I will inform Otis, immediately,” the automaton replied humorlessly, making it even more so for the detectives, who chuckled. It would be their only laugh of the day.
Calvin exited without acknowledging the humor he had caused and made a right turn. After several doors, he stopped and turned to them.
“This is Martin’s class. Ah, and here’s Miss Thames,” Calvin announced.
Both detectives turned around to see a young woman in professional attire striding up to them. Her shoes were flats, making no more than a whisper along the tile.
“Miss Thames, may I introduce Detectives McLain and Campanelli of the Chicago Police Department,” the doppelganger addressed as she shook hands with the policemen.
“Gentlemen,” she nodded, not disturbing the perfect bun in her amber hair. “How can I help you?”
“Ma’am, we need to speak to Martin Kilbourne,” McLain spoke quietly. “He was a witness to an unusual event this morning at his apartment building.”
“Oh?” Thames replied and folded her arms in front of her. Apparently, she needed more information.
“Miss Thames,” Frank took up in his normal tone with a sprinkle of impatience, “Martin may have witnessed the escape of a serial murderer. We need to ask him some important questions, in private and quickly.”
“Of course,” Margaret Thames responded. Flushed, she opened the door of the classroom, silencing the teacher within and causing all heads to turn to her. “Mr. Backstrom, I need Martin Kilbourne,” she said to the teacher. “Come with me, please,” she called to the boy in a shaky voice.
The ten-year-old approached the vice principal quickly, but warily. When he saw the two detectives, Frank in particular, he shrank back. Looking closer into the face of Frank Campanelli, he blinked and looked to Thames.
“It’s all right, Martin,” she said. “These are policemen. They need to speak to you about this morning.”
“Hello, Martin,” Kirby said once Thames closed the classroom door. “I’m Detective McLain. This is Detective Campanelli.”
“Hi,” the timid boy said. His eyes passed over Frank once again, curiously.
“There’s an empty classroom at the end of the hallway. Everyone come with me,” the vice principal directed.
Martin followed her with the two detectives close behind. Once the four were inside, Thames closed the door. “Have a seat, please, Martin.”
The child took a front seat as the vice principal took the one nearest the door. Though it was a child-size school desk, the demure grown-up fit into it. She looked at the two detectives expectantly.
“Well, Martin, we just need to follow up with you on what you saw this morning,” McLain began.
“I saw a guy jump. He landed hard on the balcony,” Martin said in near-whisper as he again stared at Frank.
“What did he look like, Martin? How was he dressed?” Frank asked. He thought he knew what the boy would say before he said it.
“Like you, sir,” he answered.
McLain blinked and looked over at his co-worker. His mouth had dropped open slightly while his eyebrows slowly lifted.
“Like me? How so, Martin?” Frank asked.
“Well, dressed like you. Black hat and long black coat.”
“Did you get a look at his face?” Campanelli followed up.
“He was fast. I saw a black beard,” Martin said and nodded.
Frank nodded and gave the boy a slight smile. “Is that why you got startled when you saw me? I’m dressed like him?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How tall was he, Martin?” McLain interjected.
“Um, I don’t know.” The boy shrugged. “I guess, a little shorter than you, sir.”
“So, a black beard. What color skin?” Frank inquired as he rubbed his cheek.
“It was very light.”
“What brought you to the window, Martin? Do you just like the sunrise?” Campanelli asked gently.
“I heard sirens. Thought I’d see a fire truck. All I got to see was an am’blance and a cop car…um, police car.”
“I see.” Frank nodded. “So, we were already on our way when you saw this man jump. Now, did he jump from a standing position or
did he take a running start?”
“Umm…” The boy stopped to think. “He ran first. He came flyin’ and landed hard on the balcony above ours.”
“Must’ve hit hard, huh?” McLain led.
“Yes, sir. The whole thing shook and, like…rang…like a bell, I guess.”
“Did either of your parents see him?” Kirby asked next.
“No. Mom was in the shower. Dad leaves for work real early.”
“Did this man see you, Martin?” Frank asked next.
“No, sir.”
“How do you know for sure?” the Captain of Detectives pressed with a kind grin.
“He was too busy grabbing onto the rails so he wouldn’t fall. Then he looked toward the alley to the street and then climbed up.”
“He went up?” Kirby inquired with a tone of surprise.
“Yes,” the young Kilbourne replied as if the fact was of no concern.
The two detectives shared a look that said otherwise.
“Was the building swept?” Frank sent to Kirby in text via implant.
“Yes, except for the balcony, apparently,” McLain answered.
“I think you’d better order another. Apartment by apartment, even if they’re empty. This guy’s dangerous, Kirby.”
“Agreed. Doing it.” McLain connected with the CPD server with the help of the school’s system and ordered an armed detail back to the building.
“Martin, would you be able to identify this man?” Frank asked.
“I don’t think so,” the boy answered immediately.
“Why not?”
“I only saw the beard part while he was in the air,” Martin answered nervously. “He looked away once he hit the balcony and then climbed up and he was gone.”
“That’s okay, kiddo,” McLain said calmly. “We understand.”
“Martin, I want you to think carefully,” Frank said as he took off his fedora and spun it on his fingers. “You’re sure about a black hat and coat. Like this?”
“Yes,” he said and nodded emphatically.
“And he had a beard,” Frank went on, all the while, Martin nodded. “And he went up, not down.”
Martin kept nodding.
“Okay,” Campanelli granted and replaced his hat with a smile. “Thank you very much, Mr. Kilbourne.”
With that, the detectives let Martin go back to class and were escorted to the door by the vice principal. Before they took their leave, Frank turned to Thames.
“How well do you know Martin, Miss Thames?” he asked of her.
“Pretty well, Detective,” she replied with some certainty.
“He’s not prone to making things up…you know…to entertain others or to say, bring attention to himself?”
“Not at all, Detective Campanelli,” she answered, not seeming to be offended by the question. “Martin’s a very bright boy and I’ve never known him to be a fibber.”
“Thank you very much, Miss Thames,” Frank said and shook her hand. “I had to ask.”
“I understand,” she answered with a smile.
The detectives walked to the cruiser in silence. While McLain drove, Campanelli thought hard about what the boy had told them. Kirby mentioned that he added an official APB to the report using Martin Kilbourne’s description and forwarded it to the men searching the apartment building at 420 Clinton Street. He received only a vacant nod as Campanelli stared ahead.
“What are you thinking, Frank?” McLain inquired as he turned onto Van Buren.
“I’m thinking I want to take a look at that balcony and the roof.”
“I’m with you.”
The entire apartment complex had been taped off by the time they returned. They identified themselves to an officer, who moved a wooden barricade to let them through. Kirby drove along Van Buren and, in doing so, were about to pass H. Lincoln Rothgery’s parked mobile laboratory when the lanky forensic genius stepped from the rear of it.
“I wonder if Lincoln has something yet,” McLain murmured and applied the brake.
Frank lowered the passenger side window and hailed Rothgery, who turned to the sound of his name and approached the cruiser, unsmiling.
“Frank, Kirby,” H. Lincoln greeted more grimly than normal. “I’ve got some tests done on the pieces of glass. The blood matches the blood of we found in Werner’s car. It’s the killer’s.”
Kirby and Frank shared a look. Campanelli sighed. “Understood. What else, Lincoln?”
“I wanted to identify the type of cutter, so I put the edges of both samples into the electron-microscope. I took samples of the fragments left on the glass and found a strange substance, sort of an acrylic material, but it looks a bit like tooth enamel in the scope.”
Frank took off his fedora and ran his hand through his gray strands. “Are you trying to tell me that our suspect chewed his way through the window?”
Rothgery let out a sigh of impatience. “Obviously not, Frank,” he retorted. “I’ll have to test this stuff more, but it’s all along the edges of both pieces of glass. So is the blood, by the way.”
“Interesting,” mumbled Kirby, though Frank doubted that H. Lincoln heard it.
“Okay, Lincoln,” Frank said as he replaced his hat. “Keep McLain informed on everything. Send a copy to me, too, ‘kay?”
“Sure.”
“Let’s go, Kirby,” Frank told the driver and cast a finger toward the world beyond the windshield.
Rothgery watched the departing cruiser for a moment and placed his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. “Chewed,” he scoffed and shook his head. “Ridiculous. Why would he say that?”
“Lincoln?” Teri Wilkins, the assistant called from the old van.
“That’s not even funny,” he mumbled as he turned toward the voice. “Is it?”
“What?” she answered, confused. She bent at the knees to look the tall man in the eye.
“Never mind.” H. Lincoln waved her off as he shook his head. “What’s up?”
“Are we heading back to the lab?”
“Oh. Yeah. Might as well,” Rothgery said and nodded. He reached out to the open rear doors. “Get belted up front.”
“Can we stop somewhere for lunch?” Teri inquired before she would move out of the way.
“It’s not lunch time,” he protested with a glance over his glasses at his watch.
“It will be.” Wilkins smiled and tilted her head. She knew that if they went straight to the lab, the workaholic in H. Lincoln would burn away the day. She had gone home on many occasions so famished that she was dizzy.
H. Lincoln sighed. “Fine, but then we work on this stuff.”
“Of course,” she agreed and disappeared into the van as Rothgery closed the doors.
McLain made a right onto Clinton Street, where the front door to the apartment was located. They parked and went inside. They were met by Detective Hank Lyman, the man that had originally taken young Kilbourne’s statement.
“What have you got to say for yourself, Hank?” McLain hailed without greeting.
Lyman looked from McLain to Campanelli and back. “I’m very sorry guys,” he said. Frank knew the man long enough to know he meant it. “It just sounded crazy. I thought the kid made it up.” He shrugged, out of excuses.
Kirby nodded. Frank remained silent, insisting on not looking pleased.
“Anyway,” Hank went on, “we checked out the apartment above the Kilbournes’. Something hit it from above.”
“Show us,” Frank ordered.
“This way,” Lyman said and headed for the elevator.
“Has anyone found a trace of this guy?” McLain asked of his subordinate.
“The apartment on the sixth floor, two levels directly above the Kilbourne residence, was entered. The glass door had a circle cut out of it, just like the one on the 417 Jefferson side. The stairwell to the roof was accessed and he exited there.”
The elevator door slid open and Lyman took the lead down the hallway.
“How many fam
ilies are in this complex, Lyman?” McLain asked as he followed.
“This place is more populated than most like it. We’ve counted forty-six families,” Hank answered as he approached the open door to the apartment at the west end.
“Has the entire complex been swept?” Campanelli asked, standing inches from Hank Lyman’s face. His expression was deadly serious. It was clear to the younger detective that he had not forgotten about the poor report. “Storage compartments in the basement, recreation facilities, the gym, every single unit?”
“Yes, sir, Captain Campanelli,” Hank replied, thinking it wise to use his former boss’s honorary rank. “He left a trail of footsteps in this place, open doors, and the hole in the glass. That’s it so far.”
“Very well,” Frank granted and followed McLain inside.
The unit was empty. Not simply unfurnished, but devoid of everything including appliances, cabinets, and counter tops. There was dust everywhere, except where the suspect had walked directly from the balcony door to the front door of the apartment. Kirby and Frank kept to the walls to avoid disturbing the evidence. Other detectives had walked in before them and had been just as careful. The dust in the carpet at the walls was already well-traveled.
“Well, he’s got shoes,” Frank remarked with his hands in his overcoat’s pockets.
“Big,” McLain commented as he lifted his right leg and held the foot over it for a moment. “Looks like my size. Thirteens.”
“Thirteen?” Campanelli exuded in surprise. “Where the hell do you find shoes, man?”
Kirby smiled. “They are few and far between, Frank.”
“I’ll bet,” Frank murmured. “Show us where he accessed the roof,” he directed Lyman, who nodded and bid them to follow.
The stairwell to the roof was located eastward, down the hallway. Detective Lyman took the stairs two at a time and popped out on the roof with no trouble. Both doors had their latches torn apart. Campanelli and McLain appeared next, walking out into the morning sun. Frank’s eyes were shaded from light above by the fedora’s brim, but the reflection from the light gray metallic roof was enough to trigger his lenses, dimming his view to a comfortable level in response. The bio-electronics of the other two men responded similarly.
Campanelli: Siege of the Nighthunter Page 7